There are few people in this world who would consider rising at four in the morning to take his friends to the airport for their vacation. Brad’s friend Rick is a true gem. Not only did he show up at our doorstep before the sun rose, he managed to jam all of our suitcases into the trunk of his Audi. He was sporting a smile and that fantastic, enthusiastic personality of his. And he drove us to the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport with plenty of time to spare. Thanks Rick!
There’s an old joke that goes something like this, “The airline that flew me into town lost my luggage. I don’t want to embarrass them by mentioning their name, so I’ll just say their initials: TWA.” That’s a classic quip from the Johnny Carson era about how bad some American carriers can be.
Likewise, I don’t want to publically rat out any company, so I’ll just say that our dysfunctional airline’s name would be something like “United Parcel Service” if UPS wasn’t a Parcel Service.
The plane they dispatched for the Minneapolis to Chicago leg of our flight was less than stellar. It had seen its better days (likely the final days of WWI). The arm rest between Brad and Cici’s seat was completely missing, Cici’s seat declined to recline, the flight attendant was a bit abrupt (rather more like a “fight” attendant than flight attendant), and the curtain between the economy section and the business class section was threadbare and ripped in places.
It seemed so ridiculous that anyone would pay extra money to sit on the other side of that ripped nhagahide curtain. Admittedly, the seats were a little wider there, and the up-fronties were given peanuts and napkins. But other than that, they were breathing the same recycled air that we were, and they still had to deal with Ms. Grumpy pants.
Regardless, Un#@*d Airlines got us to the windy city with all of our arms and legs attached, and that’s all they ever really promised to do. They followed through on their part of the bargain, so I shouldn’t complain. When the tires finally hit the ground, Brad applauded.
After the plane taxied around in circles so the pilot could complete the number of flight hours required to complete his licensure, they delivered Brad, the kids, and me to concourse “B”, which was ten miles away from Terminal 5, which housed concourse “M”, which in turn contained Gate 12: our gateway to the Boeing 777 we’d be flying. We’d been effectively handed off to Asiana Airlines, one of the most well-run carriers in the world. Soon we’d be basking in the benevolent glow of an army of perfect little Korean flight attendants on a really clean, well-maintained plane.
I must admit, however, that flying the Asiana creates a bit of a civil rights dilemma for me. All of Asiana’s flight attendants are perfect. Each one is model-beautiful, thin as a chopstick, and blessed with warm smiles and impeccable manners. It’s as if airline management hired the Stepford Wives to invent a flight-attendant injection mold.
You can bet that the pilots (one of whom was sporting the beginnings of a makju belly) are never in danger of being fired because they eat too much ice cream or dried squid and put on 15 pounds. But I digress. I love Asiana. I’m not complaining.
I looked up at the flight monitor attached to the ceiling. The illuminated map said we were half way across Canada, near the Arctic Circle, heading west toward the land from whence I came. It was dark in the plane. They’d shut all the blinds so people could sleep and adjust to Korea time. We were sitting three rows from the very back of the plane. Max was curled up under a blanket, sleeping. Cici was rocking to the music coming from her earphones. Brad was struggling to activate the on-demand video screen attached to the seat in front of him.
No use, Brad. They want us to sleep. Go to sleep!
Songs of My Families 